


You Don't Deserve Him

by 777AlitaT



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Skyrim Romance Mod - Fandom
Genre: Dismemberment, Domestic dispute, F/M, Makeup Sex, mild kink shaming, self-indulgent as fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 17:46:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13862745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/777AlitaT/pseuds/777AlitaT
Summary: You are Corrine, the legendary Drgonborn, Listener to the Dark Brotherhood, Archmage of the College of Winterhold, Harbinger of the Companions, Guild Master of the Thieves Guild, and all-around badass. You've faced off dragons, necromancers, daedra, men and monsters of nearly every size and capacity for cruelty, and you've always come out on top.You're also about to get your finger bit off by a snow elf.Your husband is going to be pissed.





	You Don't Deserve Him

The learning curve for Skyrim's adventurers was as steep and unforgiving as the slopes leading to High Hrothgar. Those who lacked the fortitude and skill were quickly forced from the practice, their bodies serving as grim warnings of the dangers ahead for future adventurers.

Those that lasted, that learned to recognize signs of danger and avoid or prepare for them ahead of time, rapidly decreased their chances of being maimed or slain on their travels. After one or two years in the practice, an adventurer could go nearly anywhere with confidence, face most types of foes knowing exactly what they were getting into.

It was for this reason that when you - a twelve year veteran of adventuring, dragon-slaying, and treasure hunting, the Dragonborn, and Listener of the Dark Brotherhood - felt the teeth of a Falmer warrior crunch through your left ring finger in a scuffle that had landed your hand on his face, you felt a wave of embarrassment before the pain hit. A shout of Unrelenting Force sent the foul creature flying away, as well as alerting every Falmer in the Blackreach under Mzulft of your presence in the caverns. Clutching your bleeding hand, you cast a healing spell through your arm as you scurry away from the approaching Falmer, your steps silent even as you scold yourself for being so stupid and careless.

You hide against a wall lined with glowing mushrooms and take the opportunity while waiting out the Falmer's search to examine your hand. As the glow of your spell recedes, you cringe at the injury. You'd hoped to see, at worst, the white of bone through lacerated flesh. What you find instead is an absence, a void where your left ring finger had once been. Leaning against the wall, you tip your head back, scolding yourself as you cast another healing spell to stop the bleeding. You briefly considered trying to find the Falmer that bit you, to take the digit back, but there’s no point. Not even the best healer you know can bind a piece of the body back on. And, considering the mouth you'd likely find it in, you aren’t certain you'd even want it back.

The sting of a laceration had faded to a dull throb, but you had lost your taste for adventuring for the day with your finger. You wait, nursing your wound, until the Falmer's search quiets down, before creeping off. You find an elevator that promised an escape to the surface and leave the dwemer ruin.

There were some bandits camped around the lift's cage, but most were asleep. Those that aren't don't know you are among them until they are stuck full of arrows. You claim an empty, unbloodied bedroll as your own for the night, considering your hand with a look of dissatisfaction. The embarrassed feeling returns and you groan, rolling onto your back and rubbing your face. You try to think on the bright side. You hadn't died, after all. And at least you hadn't lost anything important. A middle or forefinger from your left hand - or any from the right - would have drastically altered your ability to fight. As it was, your left ring finger served next to no purpose. Well, other than wearing Bishop's ring.

Your stomach gives a flop, remembering your husband at home. Bishop. Bishop would be... Well, he'd be furious, at first. You'd gone somewhere dangerous alone. Somewhere you hadn't told him you were going. Your embarrassment takes on a new level as you turn on your stomach, pressing your face into the bedroll to muffle your second, shamed groan.

Bishop is generous with you to a fault. You may never know what endeared you so to Mara that she made the man so devoted to you, but you know you owe her some sincere thanks for it. He's given you ten years of his life, gone toe-to-toe with dragons, marauders, and daedra alike to keep you safe, stood by you after he found out about your connections to the Thieves Guild and the Dark Brotherhood, and he even forgave you for throwing your life away when you left him at Dragonsreach to fight Alduin. And in return, all he's asked for was your love, your companionship, and that you consider the dangers that could jeopardize your ability to return to him.

In short, you don’t deserve him.

You're braced for an argument as you make your way down the mountain the next day, heading back to where you'd left Shadowmere the morning before, you consider lying to him about what happened to your finger. As you always do when you think of lying to the man whose first way of saying "I love you" was "I trust you", you quickly recoil from the thought. He'd believe you without a moment’s hesitation if you said you’d made a mistake at a grindstone, or that you got a bit too careless fighting a bear. But lies that would come easily when said to anybody else tangle up in your throat when you face him, when you meet his golden eyes.

You can't lie to him, even when the truth will hurt him.

Spring is dancing in the Rift, welcoming you as warmly as your son and husband certainly will. The warm sunlight and verdant green contrast the gloomy thoughts that plague you as you make your way home. You ride past highwaymen that try to trouble you, in no mood to even entertain their bloodthirst as you pass through Shor's Stone. You leave the road then to cut through the wilderness. You've found Bishop out here enough to chance the encounter before meeting him at home. You hope you can keep the coming argument away from your son.

You're in no such luck, however, and as you draw toward your cottage, you spot your ranger sitting on a stump around the back, fletching arrows and enjoying the peace of the forest. Despite the anticipatory tension you carry there, your heart warms to see him so at ease. He'd never admit it, would never concede to being so soft, but you know this is where he's happiest: away from strangers, in the peace of the woods, on his land, with his family. It's why you so rarely ask him to join you on your journeys anymore; you hate the anxiety your adventures put in his eyes, and you can scantly bare it after you’ve seen what he looks like when he’s at peace.

He spots you from a distance, and the smile that warms his expression as your eyes meet sets your heart aflutter. Mara's hand, do you want to lie to him, at least by omission. You dismount Shadowmere, who knickers in anticipation at the sight of your stable. It never fails to amuse you how a horse named for being "part of the shadow" was so enamored by creature comforts. Your gloved left hand takes his reigns as you lead him forward, your right finding Bishop's shoulder as he comes in range to kiss you. His lips take yours without compromise or permission, neither of which he needs, and you can tell from the way he draws you close that he'd been worried.

"Welcome home, ladyship," he says against your lips when he draws away. Shadowmere tramps the dirt impatiently, so you release him and let him go on ahead to the stable while you hang back. Bishop hasn't noticed the tacked-down finger of your glove, yet, too infatuated with your eyes to take full account of you. "How'd it go with the Companions? What did they want?"

"The Vigil has been prying into our business again," you sigh, recalling your original reason for leaving home. "Particularly our inner circle."

Bishop frowns, putting an arm around your waist, falling in step with you a you make your way toward the cottage. "Do they think you're involved with daedra?"

"Oh, certainly." That much was obvious. What was in question was how much they knew, whether or not they suspected you, personally, and to what extent. "But I think I've at least put a damper on their investigation." Kicking up some bad blood between the vigil and the cult of Namira would at least keep them busy for a while. Long enough, certainly, to relocate the incriminating artifacts you held in Breezehome to Lakeside Manor. 

"I always said working with daedra was asking for trouble," he remarks, never one the pass up the chance to remind you that he's right. 

You roll your eyes. "And I never said you were wrong."

"No. You just like to remind me how good you are at getting out of trouble."

"I'd have made a very poor thief if I wasn’t."

He kisses you again, bringing a hand to your to your shoulder. His fingers trace down your armor, toward your hand, and you really don't want him to notice your new - ahem - "subtraction" before you've brought it up. You break the kiss. "I went into a dwemer ruin," you say. Bishop’s eyebrows lift, his expression uickly turning suspicious at your choice of interruption.

"Yeah, Ladyship? Which one?"

"Miz-ahlft." 

"Mzulft?" He clarifies, and you shrug and nod. Your tongue could never quite grasp the nuance of dwemer, but when you were creeping through the ancient cities, properly pronouncing their unforgiving names felt much less valuable to you. "What for?"

It shames you to admit. It takes all your self-control to not whither under the question. "I... was curious." You hesitate because it's the truth, and it’s a piss-poor reason to have lost a finger. 

Bishop huffs dropping his hands from your form and folding his arms. You ought to be too old to be so susceptible to scolding, but you drop your gaze from his all the same. "And let me guess: you went in alone, didn't you? What happened?"

"Nothing," you hiss, out of habit, before correcting yourself. No. Something had happened this time. "Well- look, it was a foolish mistake, and I won't make it again, but-"

You attempts to downplay your injury come too late. Just admitting to making a mistake is so unlike you that Bishop's anger has been set aside for concern. "How bad is it? What happened?"

This is getting embarrassing. You look down at his chest as you raise your left hand, which he quickly grabs to examine. He's silent, and you're too embarrassed to look at his expression as you explain, "It was a Falmer. I pushed him off wrong and he bit it off." He turns your hand with no reply, so you carry on. "It hasn't even bothered me. I can still cast and shoot just fine. It’s been no trouble."

You feel his hold tighten on you. "So what you’re saying is, this isn’t a big deal to you?" He snaps, and you look up at him now. You can tell he's angry, but there's more there, something you can't quite place. "How is this not a wakeup call to you? This is exactly what I've been saying could happen if you go into dangerous ruins alone."

"You never said I'd get my finger bit off."

"I said you'd get hurt! And look, I was right!"

"It's not-"

"Not a big deal. No, not this time. But you're not thinking ahead. Give me one good reason you couldn't bring somebody with you."

You hate being interrupted, and being cut off as you incensed, putting more fire in your voice than you mean to use. "I said it was a mistake, Bishop. What more do you want me to say?"

"What about 'I'm sorry, Bishop, my husband who loves me more than life itself, that I went and risked my life because I was curious'? That'd be nice to hear for once. Or maybe ‘I won't do it again'?" Something crosses his face, a realization. "Is the only reason I found out you went because you couldn't hide this?"

You blanch, caught off guard by the blunt question, by the underlying accusations. Your hesitation reads as confirmation to your ranger, who scowls and turns to go back to the cottage. "Bishop, wait-" 

He shakes your hand off his arm, not looking at you as he continues his march inside. He doesn't go far, grabbing his bow and quiver from the rack by the door. "Stay home with Julian for once," he growls at you. Your son, hearing him address you, comes running from his room to greet you.

"Ma!" You catch him in your arms, lifting him as you follow Bishop back out and onto the porch. 

"Where are you going?" You ask him.

"And why in Oblivion do I need to tell you that?" He snaps, stomping off the porch and to the stable, where his own horse is waiting. He gives a whistle, and Karnweir comes running to his side. You watch him ride off, his bow on his back the last of him that you see before he disappears among the trees.

Julian watches him go with a frown etched in his sweet face. "Is Papa mad?" He asks, drawing your attention from the patch of forest that had swallowed your husband. You sigh and kiss the side of Julian's head. You knew better than to ever count on your clever son missing something in your home. 

"Yes," you answer, petting his hair with your left hand. "Not at you, though."

He notices your hand after your first pass through his short brown locks. He catches your hand in his own little ones, drawing it down to look at the void where your finger had been. "Where'd your finger go?" He asked, feeling through the leather of your glove, like you'd hidden it away.

"I got careless on a job," you tell him easily, setting him down so you can sit and kick off your boots. "A snow elf bit it off."

"Did it hurt?"

"Oh, no. Just tickled a little," you tell him wryly, wiggling your foot out of the soft, tight boot.

He frowns. "No it didn't!" He tells you indignantly, and you're stuck for a moment by the uncanny way he struck through your lies and jests. You consider sometimes of having another child, a daughter, hopefully, who might delight, surprise, and consternate Bishop like Julian does to you. But given your luck, you'd more than likely have a second, even sharper son in Bishop's spitting image. 

You hope he comes back soon.

After some banter with your boy, you send Julian off to pick some vegetables from the garden for dinner, then get up to go ready a bath. You save removing your glove for last, not particularly eager to see the ugly wound anew. You have enough experience with restoration and alchemy that you've kept the potentially nasty infection of a Falmer-bite at bay, but that doesn't mean that the site is very pretty. Pulling off your glove sends a fresh rush of pain through the stump, though you scarcely wince. It's not that you don't feel pain - you certainly do - but after everything that's been done to your body, every wound you've sustained, every burn, ice spike, arrow, blade, and punch you've taken, this pain is another drop in a lifetime's worth of agony.

You splash a healing potion over the digit, and one in the steaming water of the bath for good measure. The scent of mountain flowers and crisp wheat rises from the water with the steam. You ease yourself into the hot bath with a sigh, listening to the sound of Julian playing in the garden. 

You wonder where Bishop has gone. You'd like to think he's just gone hunting, and that he'll be back with some bear pelts or some antlers before nightfall, but you know better. He's like you when he's angry. When your tempers are flaring, you like to go out toward some fortresses, and let some fool bandits pick a fight with you. When he comes back, the blood he'll wash off will be human, not beast.

After you dry yourself, you dress in a comfortable, unarmored gown, braiding your hair up, and away from your face. You spend your evening cooking a hearty meal of rabbit stew. Without noticing, you'd cut vegetables for three portions, and you sigh, considering what to do. Bishop /might/ be home before dinner gets too cold. And though you doubt it, you proceed, though you leave his to simmer in the pot. 

He doesn't show up after you wash the dishes or while you spar with a wooden sword with your son. He's not home by the time you are tucking your boy into bed and telling him a story of a dragon you'd slain. You don't hear the door upstairs open while you're grinding wheat and flowers into a paste, or see him coming toward the cottage as you head outside to gather some fresh water. You work at your alchemy table for hours, until your stores of healing potions are stocked and your eyes are so heavy you're working with them nearly shut. 

You don't remember falling asleep, but alas, you are woken up with your face pressed into the carved grooves of the table. You know before seeing that there will be imprints left in your cheek, but before you can move yourself, you are pulled away by a hand on your shoulders. Shock stiffens you for a moment, before you catch the scent of wood-smoke, honey, and forest air that you associate with your husband.

"Bish-" Hot, hungry lips claim yours as your husband turns you, pressing you against the alchemy table. You're surprised by the force of his desire, though the taste of ale on his breath answers your question before you bother to ask it. Annoyance flares in you, but quickly dies as you remember just how many times your recklessness has driven him to drink. You bring a hand to his shoulder, pushing him off to take a breath, to ask where he's been, but your thoughts are derailed by a kiss to your neck. "Ah, Bishop-"

"Stop," he growls, tightening his hold on you.

You frown. You'd been about to say the same thing, but his lips are off of you now, and he's just holding you close, so you sigh and move your hand to his hair. "Stop what?"

"Talking. And leaving me behind. I can't-" You feel more than hear the break in his voice, and shame makes you hold him tighter. You love him. What are you doing this for? Why would you make him suffer, hanging around here while you risk life and limb for more gold than you would ever know how to spend. If you were a thoughtful, careful woman, you'd have tempered yourself for him; you'd stay home, by his side, raising your son quietly in the woods.

But you're not careful or thoughtful. For all intents and purposes, you're the same woman he married. Just as hungry, hard-eyed, and ambitious now, tucking his head against your neck, as you were the day he conscripted your help to find his wolf. You’re still a dragon in her prime. He’s an old wolf. "I'm sorry."

"You're not. You don't care."

Your lips purse. "I care about you."

He laughed bitterly. "You care that I'm here. That I keep out of trouble. But you don't care how all the risks you take tears me apart while you're gone."

You don't reply, the guilt weighing your tongue down. You can't deny it, though it isn't the full truth. You care, of course, but... You try not to think about it. In your silence he sighs. "My biggest fear... it's not that somebody shows up and tells me you died somewhere. Or that your body gets brought home. At least then... Then I'd know."

Your mouth goes dry as you realize what he hasn't said yet, and worse, what he probably wouldn't say: that he worries you may never come back, and that he'd go mad trying to find out what happened to you, where you'd gone, what had ended your life or - worse - who was holding you captive. You know he thinks of Miraak often, of the way the other dragonborn had propositioned you, of what he'd done to your mind in your first hours on Raven Rock.

Bishop pushes himself up, and you're grateful for the dim light that prevents you from seeing whether or not he'd been crying. By the divines, you hope he wasn't shedding tears for you. "I can't do it anymore. I won't. If you can't be more careful, if you can't tell me where you're going-"

Your heart seizes with fear for the end of that sentence. You push yourself up to kiss him before he can, and he accepts the gesture like a wounded man accepts a healing potion, with relief. When you break apart, you break your silence. "I will, Bishop, don't say- Please, don't. I'll be more careful. I swear, I won't go anywhere without telling you." You off pull your trollskin gloves and reach up to cup his cheeks. "I'm sorry. I've been selfish, and I'm sorry."

He turns his face into your hand, kissing your palm. It's the hand with bandages across the stump of your ring finger and into the palm, so you know a decision was made there. He keeps his lips to your skin for a handful of moments. "Did he take your ring?"

The question catches you off guard. "What?" 

"If the son of a bitch that bit you took your wedding ring, you better bet I'm going back there after it.”

You gape at him before letting out a laugh. You feel him smile against your hand before he lowers it, leaning forward to kiss you. When you break again, you don't let him go far, resting your forehead to his. "No. I never wear important rings into ruins. Not your brother's ring or my wedding band." You slide your hand along his shoulder, tilting your head to kiss his cheek.

"In anticipation of losing a finger?" You shrug. He kisses you softly, twining his fingers with yours. "This really doesn't bother you at all, does it?"

Laying your head against his shoulder, you shrug again. "It's pretty embarrassing."

It gets a laugh out of him. "I bet it is! How are you going to explain that to your Companions, oh Honorable Harbinger?"

"About the same way I did to you. I'll use at a lesson to the whelps to not be too cocky." You adjust your position on the table and hear a bottle fall and clatter to the ground. You frown and try to rise, but your husband keeps you pinned down. "Bishop?"

He's quiet for a bit. Gods, you wish you could see his face. Maybe then you'd know what he was thinking, what he wanted. Well, honestly, you can guess what he wants: he is pinning you down, after all. Bishop doesn't answer you, so you lean up to kiss him again, a hand on the back of his neck. It gets more out of him than your words had, and he presses forward, planting himself between your legs as he kisses you back. Your dress is hiked up past your knees to allow him room, and Bishop pulls his hands from yours to wander your legs. His fingers skitter the inside of your foot and you give him a light knee to the ribs in reply. You feel him grin as he breaks the kiss, and you're grateful for the dark hiding your blush.

"You and feet! You're so weird."

"Just be glad you didn't lose a toe. I'd be long gone."

You snicker, pushing yourself up against him. Your hold on the back of his neck holds him steady as you purr back, "As if I'd let you get far, _yuvon ahhi. Hi los dii* _." You draw him down into a kiss.__

__When he pulls away, it’s only so he can lean down and kiss your neck. "What's that mean?" He asks, his lips brushing against your throat._ _

__"Sit in on my lessons with Julian." You say, your voice breathy and weak. "Maybe you'd, ah..." You clutch his shoulders as he nips your neck, pulling him closer with your legs._ _

__It seemed Bishop was done with talking. His hands were on your thighs, sliding your skirt up higher, and sending shivers up your spine as his fingers graze the sensitive skin of your womanhood. Your reason gets the better of your desire, though, and you release him to catch his hands. "Wait," you whisper. "Wait. Julian is-"_ _

__"Want to go upstairs?"_ _

__You nod, and move to the edge of the table to get off. He doesn't let you get far, pressing his arousal against your slit through his armor, catching your lips in a kiss that takes your breath away. He ruts against you through the kiss, catching your whimpers and moans in his mouth, stoking the flames within you until you could scarcely bare to part from him._ _

__When he breaks the kiss and steps away to let you up, you can see his wolfish grin in the dim light of the glowing mushrooms. Your eyes narrow at him, and you bat away the hand he offers to help you up. As you pass him on the way up the stairs, you give his ass a meaningful grope, looking over your shoulder with a smirk as you come into the light. A peek into Julian’s room assures that he’s still asleep, though Eira raises her head to consider you, as if asking what you could possibly want from looking into your own son’s room._ _

__Assured that you probably won’t be interrupted, you climb the stairs with Bishop close behind you. As soon as you’re in the upper level of the cottage, his hands are on you again, pulling you against his chest. You try to turn in his arms, but he holds you by your hips, ravishing your neck with kisses and bites as he steers you to the bed._ _

__You manage to wriggle out of his grip to face him, bringing your hands to his shoulders to try and turn him around. He’s having none of your dominance, however, and bends low to hook his hands under your legs. You fall back on the mattress, barely pushing yourself up before he’s over you again, opening the bodice of your dress with deft fingers as he leaves a mark on your neck. In turn, you set to work opening his armor. To your annoyance, he’s hasn’t bothered to remove his bow or quiver, and you roll your eyes. He – of course - won’t have you just tossing those aside like his armor. You move your grip to his shoulders and draw him up so you can bite down on the tender junction of his neck and shoulder, grinding your thigh up against the V of his legs._ _

__He groans from the conflicting pain of your bite and the pleasure. When you draw away, he goes to kiss you, but you stop him with a hand. “Put your bow away.”_ _

__There’s a moment of defiance in his eyes, a second where he seems to be thinking ‘fuck it’. He thinks better of it, however, and rises from over you to go replace his bow and arrow on the rack by the door. You take the moment you have the space to rise to your knees on the bed, waiting until he’s facing you again to carry on what he started. You open your dress slowly, looking up into his eyes and delighting in the desire you find burning there._ _

__You’ve hardly bared your breasts to him before he moves forward to touch you. One hand finds your breast while the other braces himself over you. You change your focus from your clothes to his, diligently undoing the buckles and buttons keeping his skin hidden from your touch. Your eyes flutter closed as you lean up to kiss him again, nipping his lower lip to coax a growl from him._ _

__As soon as you’re able, you slide a hand under his shirt to feel the feverish warmth of his skin. You’re happy to take things at an easy pace, but Bishop – as usual – is urgent in his desire. He shrugs off his armor before opening the front of his pants. His manhood springs free, flushed and eager, and you shift from your knees to open your legs for him. He doesn’t bother with undressing either of you further (Honestly, the fetishist probably prefers you semi-undressed with your smalls barely pushed out of the way, anyway.) and instead nestles between your thighs, catching your mouth in a kiss you can barely keep up with. He reaches down to caress your slit, and you can’t tell whether the smile you feel against your lips is from the gasp that leaves you or the fact that you’re already wet._ _

__Probably both._ _

__You clutch his shoulder as he dips a finger into you; the kiss breaks as you pull back to catch your breath and thoughts, only to find them both stuttering as your ranger leans down to latch his mouth over your breast. It astounds you that he never thought to become a bard. He plays you better than anyone in Solitude has ever played a lute, better than anyone has ever played you. (The smug bastard knows it too; he treats your orgasms like you treat dragon souls.)_ _

__Your hand covers your mouth to muffle a moan as he slides in a second finger. You don’t anticipate that he’ll let it stay for long, and he doesn’t, but before he can take your wrist, you grab his instead, and draw one of his fingers into your mouth. You feel him shudder and pull away from your chest. “Temptress.”_ _

__You move his hand from your mouth, smiling down at him as he twines his fingers with yours, pinning your arm against the mattress. It’s your left hand. There’s no missing the void where your finger had been, but the desire in his eyes doesn’t flag. “So I’ve heard.”_ _

__Bishop makes a noise like a growl, curling his fingers inside you until you arch off the bed with a gasp. He bites your collarbone as he deems you ready, withdrawing his fingers with a soft, wet sound that makes you blush. You whine from the absence; Bishop shushes you, kissing one of the marks blooming into a bruise on your neck._ _

__He slips inside of you in the same movement that brings his hips between your legs again, and your free hand draws a pillow over your face to muffle your moan. You hear your husband huff in annoyance before you find both wrists restrained over your head in one of his hands. He pins you with his gaze as surely as he had with his body, and it takes all your self-control to not squirm. “Stop that.”_ _

__You try to protest. “Julian-“_ _

__“Sleeps like the dead and can’t hear me calling him up for breakfast from down there. And I want to hear you.”_ _

__You bite your lip, hesitant to take his word for it. Bishop rolls his eyes before scattering your reticence with a single thrust that has your mouth falling open in a moan. He chuckles, and you try to glower at him in response. Looks that cut down grizzled Companions, assassins, uppity thieves, and orc chiefs only served to amuse him further, drawing him down to kiss you, meeting your ire with passion as he hooked his free arm under your leg, fucking you into the mattress._ _

__Insufferable as he is, it’s hard to stay annoyed with him when he beds you like this. Like he’ll never get tired of you. Like he could go on forever. It’s next to impossible to stay mad at him when he forgives your slights to his heart so quickly. You soften your kiss, but the pace of his thrusts doesn’t let up._ _

__Gods you want to touch him, but your wrists are still pinned, and while there is plenty you could do about it, Bishop is not some grabby bandit, and you’re not about to shout your husband from the bed. Bishop seems to read into your desire – or maybe he’s just adjusting his position – and lets up his hold. As soon as you’re free you cup his face, holding him into the kiss. You hear his breath hitch from a particularly clever twist of your tongue and you take the unguarded moment to nip his lip before turning away from the kiss._ _

__You open your eyes to find him staring down at you, lips still parted from the kiss. Your heart gives a flip; you card your fingers through his hair, coaxing a languid roll of his hips from him that has you letting out a shuddering, breathy moan. Bishop repeats the motion, drawing the same sound from you, dropping his head to kiss under your neck. At a particularly pleasing thrust, you keen, unwittingly drawing your nails down his back. He growls beside your ear, finds that same angle, and follows it relentlessly._ _

__You don’t last long after that. You missed him too much. As he always done when you come home, he gives you a damn good reason to keep coming back. One that the dragon in you can argue power or wealth outweigh. And as you reach your peak, clinging to his shoulders, your eyes lock, and he gives you a second one: he loves you. If he’s said it once, he’s said it a dozen times that he loves you, and what he’s never once thought to say was that you haven’t earned an ounce of that. You hold onto him anyway (both literally and figuratively) and draw him close as he finishes in you, his face pressed to your neck, mouthing words against your skin that you’re sure would devastate you to hear._ _

__All is still but for your panting. Your legs go slack around his waist. Bishop braces himself over you. He catches his breath against the junction of your neck and shoulder, so close you’re surprised he gets any air at all. He pulls from you after what feels like a long time, and draws away to lay next to you. You don’t let him get far before you’ve snuggled against his chest, frowning with discontent as he squirms._ _

__“You didn’t let me get comfortable,” he responds to your unvoiced complaints._ _

__“What, going to circle the bed a dozen times? Lay down.”_ _

__You get a pinch to the teat for that, and you treat him to a bite on the neck in reply. You get a low groan from him before the both of you settle, you pressed to his side, his arm tucked around you. Your right hand rests on his chest, over his heart, while your left curls between the two of you._ _

__You’re not quite falling asleep, not quite thinking hard enough to be awake. You feel him move, and you open your eyes as he draws your left hand out of hiding, twining his fingers with yours. You look down, grateful for the bandages hiding the ugly wound. He knows better than to hover, to nag you to take care of yourself, so as he examines your hand, you wonder what he’s thinking._ _

__“Does it bother you?”_ _

__“Of course, it does,” he replies. “You stubborn, reckless woman. know this wouldn’t have happened to you if you listened to me.”_ _

__“I mean, is it off-putting?”_ _

__“Is it ugly?”_ _

__You don’t reply. His thumb runs over the back of your ring finger, stopping before he reaches the new end of the digit. “Eeeh, probably not as much as it is to you.”_ _

__You’re not sure what he means. You lift your head, putting on an expression that conveys as much, and he takes a moment, considering his words. “I guess… Look, ladyship, it would take a lot more than this to put me off of you.”_ _

__That makes sense. Laying your head back down, you ask, “Like what?” with a tired smile._ _

__“I already told you what. Mind your feet, ladyship.” His leg lifts, his foot grazing yours in a way that reflexively makes your knees curl to your chest._ _

__You squeak a stifled laugh and push away from him. He puts his arms around your waist and drags you back down on top of him. You grapple a bit, before getting the upper hand by skittering your fingers along his ticklish ribs. He jerks his arms down defensively, and you have him pinned._ _

__Your fingers are laced over his, holding his arms down against the mattress. You half-over, half-beside him, your braid hanging over your shoulder. Your eyes lock together, and a part of you melts from the warmth you find there._ _

__The adoration and admiration are – as they always have been – too much for you. The compulsion to lighten the mood takes you. “You’re gross,” you tell him. The warmth in his eyes takes on a wicked glint, and you feel more at home._ _

__“You love it.”_ _

__“I love you.”_ _

__“Then quit looming over me. Jurzathrool.”_ _

__“ _Joor zah frul_ ,” you correct, leaning down to brush your lips against his. _ _

__“ _Frul_. Whatever. Kiss me.”_ _

__You do. You kiss him slowly, gently, trying to tell him without words how much he means to you, how much his forgiveness means to you, how much you wish you could be the wife a simple, warm soul like his deserves._ _

__You don’t fall asleep until long after he does, for a change. He snores like a frost troll after drinking, so you usually make a point of it, but as they did the night before, your thoughts keep you up longer than you intend. After forcing Bishop on his side to stop the endless snarling, you lie face-to-face. It’s rare that you see the man asleep; it gives you the chance to really look at him. He’s still distractingly handsome to you, but ten years changes a man, and your ranger is only human._ _

__There are dark circles under his eyes to this day that have only darkened with accumulated years of poor sleep, drink, and a troubled heart. In the dim firelight, you can spot white hairs at his temple. On his neck and under his jaw, there is a swath of skin paler than the rest, a splatter of chaurus venom that wasn‘t treated quickly enough._ _

__(You almost lost him that time.)_ _

__You imagine he’ll think about your missing finger the way you think about that scar. About lots of his scars. About the grey hairs, the dark circles, the lines that will come with time. You’re thirty now – he’s thirty-six – and you still have a lot of life left to live, Arkay willing, and the both of you have and will continue to change._ _

__What you can count on, and what is more than you will ever do enough for Skyrim, for the Divines, for Tamriel, for him, is the loyalty that keeps Bishop coming home to you after you piss him off. He loves you despite the thousands of reasons you’ve given him to do otherwise, and nothing you can complete in this lifetime will ever make you feel like you deserve him._ _

**Author's Note:**

> * _my golden hunter. You are mine._
> 
> Thanks for reading my self-indulgent Skyrim fanfiction! I’m a huge fan of both the game and the Skyrim Romance Mod, so I felt really motivated to dust off my writing pants and get to work creating some content of my own! I also felt the need to call out mod creator Mara on the foot fetish she gave Bishop. Oh my gooood, girl, the line when you meet him about feet kissing, I was going to let go, but I was so startled when I had them do the nasty, and my girl Corrine was giving him a footjob lmao
> 
> I haven’t written anything for others to read in, gosh, ten years, has it been? The last content I posted for anybody else to read was tween Twilight-Inuyasha crossover fic. Not even kidding.
> 
> I don't really know how to end things, so I hope this wasn't too weird, and it won't be too weird to come back to when I write my next thing for these two! Also, yes, I know I use the word "hand" way too many times in this fic


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